


La Mémoire

by Amy_the_Asgardian



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, alzheimer's, dammit loki not again, sigyn why couldn't you just eat the apple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy_the_Asgardian/pseuds/Amy_the_Asgardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was the only thing keeping him alive, the only person he had ever cared for– and she couldn't even remember who he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Mémoire

 

He loved walking through the city in early morning; he always had. He loved the eerie quietness that filled the streets, so vastly different from the hustle and bustle of the crowds that would soon line the sidewalks; full of people hurrying along to avoid being out in the cool, crisp autumn air for longer than needed.

 

 

He didn’t mind it. Cold temperatures would never bother him.

 

 

He made his way down the street to the florist’s shop, taking time to look into the other shop windows as he passed. It was nearing Halloween, so each had a different, holiday themed window to match. He smiled. Mortals were funny in their ways.

 

As he opened the door to the shop, he was met with a warm welcome and a smile.

 

“Serrure! It’s good to see you! Tell me– how are you doing?” the young woman asked.

 

 

He laughed quietly to himself. Even after years of hiding behind it, the name still sounded ridiculous.

 

 

He sighed. “Emily, there is no need to ask; you see me every morning. Not much has changed in the past twenty four hours.”  
  
Emily rolled her eyes. “Well, I had to ask. It’s customer service, you know. I’m supposed to make you feel at home; you’re supposed to buy something. That’s how this works.”  
  
He sighed. “You know I’m going to buy something, regardless of your actions.”  
  
She laughed quietly. “You’re a piece of work, Serrure.”

 

 

In truth, he had been regularly visiting the shop daily for the past five years. Every morning, he buys the same flowers– a dozen Rosamunde roses, all tied together with a thin, green ribbon.

 

After all, green was his color.

 

 

“Just the same, as always” he said, as he pulled his wallet out to pay for the flowers.

 

Emily took the money, and unceremoniously stuffed it into the cash drawer. “Ever think of changing it up? Maybe a dozen tulips, or a bouquet of lavender and orange blossoms? It’d be prettier.”  
  
Suddenly serious, he glared at her. “No. _Never._ She likes roses. _Only_ roses.”  
  
Emily stepped back, and rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright; calm down. I wasn’t serious, you know. Just joking– give me a minute.” she said, making her way to a smaller back room in the shop.  
  
While she was gone, he paced impatiently in front of the counter, and looked at his watch– he was going to be late. _Dammit. Damn it all to hell._

Fifteen minutes later, Emily reappeared with his flowers– roses, like he’d asked, tied together with a thin green ribbon. He took them from her, smiled politely, and made his way out of the shop.

 

A short walk down the street, a shortcut through an alleyway, and another block down the next street, and he’d reached his destination. As he walked in, the receptionist smiled at him.

 

“She’s in high spirits this morning; you might have some luck” she said quietly.  
  
He smiled, halfheartedly. “Thank you. Any bit of luck would be nice, these days.”  
  
He bowed to her politely, and quietly made his way down the hall to her room. This part always bothered him. He hated walking through the nursing home halls, and having no choice but to peek into each room– what he saw made him sick. Younger people staring at walls, unable to move; older people who had no choice but to sit in fear and await their death– he pitied mortals for this. He hated himself for it, but he did. No one deserved to die like this.

 

Especially not her.

 

She was sitting up today; knitting a scarf she’d been working on for a while. Usually, she’d be crying when he visited.

 

The receptionist was right. Today was better.

 

He was careful to be quiet as he entered her room– he didn’t want to frighten her. He didn’t know how she’d react. Every day was different– there were no notes to go from– he had to play it by ear. He came to stand at the end of her bed, and spoke quietly.  
  
“ _Sigyn.”_

 

She dropped her knitting needles, and scooted as far back away from him as she could. He’d tried to avoid it, but had scared her anyway.  
  
“Sigyn, do not be afraid. It’s me... Serru- Loki. It’s alright... see?” He held out the roses to her, and tried to stay calm. He hated this part.

 

She blinked a few times, and smiled up at him. “Loki!” she exclaimed. She moved a bit closer to him, and held her arms out.

 

He hugged her briefly, and handed her the roses. She smiled.

 

She spoke quietly. “My roses! They’re pretty. Thank you. I love you, Loki.”

She bowed her head to smell them, and he smiled. Maybe today _would_ be better.

 

He shifted to rest his weight on one foot, and she froze. She was trembling.

 

Sigyn lifted her head to look up at him. He noticed her eyes were blank– no longer full of the recognition and love that were there a few seconds ago.

 

_No._

“H-how do you kn-know I like r-roses,” she whispered angrily. “I d-don’t know y-you.”  
  
“S-sigyn, you do; I’m Lok–“  
  
She screamed.

 

“O-OUT-! GET OUT-! GET OUT OF MY R-ROOM-! I D-DON’T KNOW YOU AND I D-DON’T LIKE YOU BEING HERE-! OUT-!” She was sobbing now; angrily throwing anything she could get her hands on in his direction.

 

He broke down into tears, and walked towards the door. “Y-you do know me, Sigyn. I’m y-your husband,” he whispered.

 

She screamed again– louder this time.

 

“GET OUT-! I DON’T KNOW YOU! I HATE YOU! O-OUT!”

 

 He simply couldn’t take it anymore.

 

He flung the door open– nearly ripping it off its hinges– and stormed down the hallway, past the receptionist, and out into the street. He found an abandoned alleyway, fell to his knees, and wailed.

 

He _hated_ mortals for this. No one- _no one_ \- should ever have to go through that. Especially not his Sigyn. For years and years he’d begged her to eat the apple he’d gifted her, to give herself immortality– but each time, she had refused. She’d wanted to live as she always had.

 

And now her idiotic decision had led to this, and he hated himself for not forcing the apple down her throat. He hated himself for still caring.

 

He should have saved her. He should have done something– _anything_ – but now, all those thoughts were useless.

 

His Sigyn was gone. The woman sitting on that hospital bed, knitting a scarf– she was a shell. Nothing. A sad reminder of what he should have done, but was too afraid to.

 

 

Damn these mortals.

 

_Damn them all to hell._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be to harsh on me, this isn't the best thing I've ever written and I didn't edit over it as meticulously as I usually do (my awesome proofreader is asleep and I'm too impatient to just wait until tomorrow); I just needed to work on something I'd previously started to try to get over writer's block. (It didn't work)
> 
> As always, comments/opinions/the like are welcome!


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